-
174 Publicações
-
0 fotos
-
0 Vídeos
-
Male
-
13/03/1991
-
Seguido por 0 pessoas
Atualizações Recentes
-
The Last TypeI. The foreman's letter arrived on a Tuesday. It was not a dramatic thing—no shouted accusations, no dramatic firing. Just a typed sheet of paper slipped under the door of the print shop, brief and bureaucratic, explaining that the Linotype machines had replaced the hand-typesetters, and that the East London office would be closing at month's end. Thirty-seven men would lose their jobs. Thomas...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça Login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
-
The Mirror at BlackthorneThe rain in London does not fall so much as it accumulates, layer by attenuated layer, until the city is nothing more than a watercolor painting left out in a storm. Reginald Ashworth had lived through eleven London rains by November 1891, but this one was different—not in its intensity or its duration, but in the particular way it blurred the boundaries between the east and the west, making...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Nameless BenefactorThe speech came through the radio in a crackle of static, like a voice from the bottom of a well. Alistair Van Derlyn sat at his writing desk in the apartment on Central Park South, a glass of sherry in his left hand, and listened to a boy he had never met become a man the entire city was listening to. "My name is Marcus Webb," the voice said, and it was deeper now than Alistair remembered --...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Shattered VesselThe Beauchamp house had been rotting from the inside for two hundred years, and Cora Delacroix could smell it the moment she pulled her car up the overgrown driveway. It was not a smell of decay, exactly. It was a smell of something that had been alive and was no longer alive but had not yet learned to stop being. She parked beside a driveway that was half-swallowed by kudzu and walked to the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Load-Bearing SongThe water was cold. Ray Kowalski stood under it anyway. It was the only way to shower in this apartment—the hot water heater had died three months ago, along with the steel mill, along with pretty much everything else that had given this town a reason to exist. He hummed. Not consciously. His body just did it, the way it breathed or blinked. A melody, complete from start to finish, came out of...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Mirror of Many FacesI woke up in Paris on a Tuesday, which was wrong because I'd gone to sleep in London on Monday night, and I'd been in London for three weeks, and the man I'd been for those three weeks—the man who was Edward Blackwood, barrister, member of the Inner Temple, son of a retired army colonel and a French mother who'd died when I was twelve—had a meeting with a client at nine o'clock. But the man who...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Laplace AlgorithmThe Laplace Algorithm The rain in Los Angeles didn't wash things clean. It just made the grime slicker, turned the streets into mirrors that reflected the neon signs in distorted, bleeding colors. Jack Morrison sat in his office on Sunset Boulevard, watching a drop of water trace a path down the windowpane, and wondered if that path was predetermined the moment the rain began to fall. His...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 18 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
Rust in the Sunshine StateI. The upstairs door shut with a sound like a coffin lid, and Lisa thought nothing of it. It was an old house—the kind of house that was held together with paint and stubbornness—and the door to the upstairs room had never worked right. It didn't lock, exactly. It just sometimes didn't open. "Key's with Karen," she told Mike over the phone. "If I don't come down in three days, go upstairs and...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 23 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
ACT IThe Beauregard plantation looked like a dying animal: magnificent once, now skeletal, its ribs of white columns protruding through peeling paint like bone through rotting flesh. Elias Thorne stood at the gate and felt something he hadn't felt since Boston, something that was almost sympathy. He had come south as a Union intelligence officer, armed with maps and coded messages and a conviction...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Numbers of BrooklynI Marcus Chen was twenty-five and tired. Not sleepy-tired. Life-tired. The kind of tired that comes from working twelve-hour days at a delivery company and coming home to a studio apartment in Sunset Park that smelled like the previous tenant's cooking, which was Vietnamese because Marcus was Vietnamese and he couldn't afford to clean it out. He lived with his sister Eileen, who was thirty-one...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The house on Cotton Row Road had been dying longer than any of us had been alive.It sat on a patch of land that used to be a plantation before the war, before the cotton gave way to weeds, before the weeds gave way to something worse—forgetting. The porch sagged like a jaw missing teeth. The paint peeled in long strips, like sunburned skin. And in the basement, behind a wall of rotting cypress logs, was a door that led down into something that was not a basement but a...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 16 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Shadow of Thornfield**OTMES Code**: [WE-V06-SGT-HST-20260510] | TI: 78.2 | Style: Southern Gothic ## Act I: The Return (20%) I came back to Thornfield in the autumn of 1924, when the magnolias were dying and the air smelled of damp earth and old money that had long since run out. The plantation — if you can call what remained of it that — sat on a bluff above the Yazoo River, its white columns peeling like...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 9 Visualizações 0 Anterior
Mais Stories